


Mercy

by Relvetica



Series: Wolves [17]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:36:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relvetica/pseuds/Relvetica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a few minutes, long enough that it would look like a gentle attempt to change the subject, Wrench said, my father taught me H-U-N-T-I-N-G.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

Wrench didn't know what the doctor had done for him at the motel; the syringe he'd produced seemed more a response to Wrench's questions -- what happened, where were they, was his partner was all right, was his car was all right (Numbers was still laughing at him for that; apparently he'd asked about the car more than once) -- than to his extent of his injury. The shot had knocked him out cold for nearly twelve hours. The pills the doctor had left him had been a generic for oxycontin, and the time spent waiting for him to be well enough to travel was mostly a hazy half-memory. It could have been days or months; Numbers said it had been two weeks, and he'd gone to Kmart twice because he couldn't find a laundromat.

When he was finally returned to civilization and put under the care of a surgeon, he was prescribed Vicodin, which didn't mask the pain as thoroughly and left his head clearer. That was fine. Employment by the syndicate had educated him on all the exploitations of addiction, and he wasn't interested in being on the receiving end. And as irritating as the pain that shot down his left arm and across his shoulders could be, he knew he'd been lucky.

Lucky, lucky, lucky; that was what the interpreter at the hospital had repeated for every nurse and specialist who examined him. Lucky the x-rays revealed no bone fractures. Lucky the bullet hadn't struck the subclavian artery. Lucky it hadn't struck the axillary artery. Lucky his deltoid hadn't become gangrenous due to the damage to his posterior humeral circumflex artery (he'd needed her to repeat that). Lucky he'd received first aid; lucky he hadn't developed an aneurism as a result of the first aid.

Not feeling lucky, he'd said, trying to make a fist of his shaking left hand and not addressing anyone in particular. He was a little taken aback when the interpreter blithely translated this into words for the doctor. Of course: it was her job. 

The doctor looked at him humorlessly. "On the left side of your body," he said, the interpreter repeating him with an affected professional lack of expression, "the subclavian artery emerges from the transverse aortic arch. The aorta is the most important artery in your body; it originates from the heart. Any injury that affects the aorta has the potential to be life-threatening." He glanced to the side, momentarily distracted by the interpreter signing an emphatic CAN DIE after a nearly unbroken streak of fingerspelling. "You were lucky," he said.

Yes, he was lucky, but not because of any of that. He was lucky because that bullet had been meant for his head, and it hadn't missed by much.

\---

Wrench had asked Numbers to pick up milk and paper towels for him on his way back into the city; Numbers arrived at his door with two bags of groceries in one hand and a case of Sam Adams in the other. He passed the latter to Wrench and said, one-handed, should have gone to the B-R-E-W-E-R-Y, but I was at the store anyway. 

Wrench laughed and set it down. No drinking. Pain pills, still.

Numbers shrugged and said, the thought counts. 

He'd used the sign that meant to count things. Wrench smiled helplessly and felt dumb for it. True, he said. Thank you. For later, maybe. 

Numbers laughed. Get better and I will buy you more, he said, and he took both the beer and groceries into the kitchen. Wrench lingered to turn on the television and find a game; at this point it was beginning to feel forced, but you couldn't have guy over without a game on.

When he wandered after Numbers into the kitchen, he was putting things into the fridge. Numbers looked over at him and mimed popping the cap off the beer he was holding; Wrench opened a drawer and tossed the bottle opener to him. It was a clumsy pass, but Numbers caught it.

L-O-O-P-Y still? Numbers asked.

Less, Wrench said. He rubbed his eyes and amended: a little less.

Numbers clapped his good shoulder. You look better, he said. Not all white. He paused, frowning, but he thought better of what he was going to add and waved a hand. The weight loss, maybe.

I feel better, Wrench said. Not good, yet. Better.

We'll watch hockey, Numbers said. You can fall asleep.

Football, Wrench said. Numbers made a face, and Wrench said, D-A-L-L-A-S against C-H-I-C-A-G-O! This is my place. You want hockey, go to your place.

Fine, football, Numbers said. When you fall asleep, hockey.

Numbers had spent the first few nights on Wrench's couch after they'd finally limped back to Fargo, in case Wrench needed help; Wrench felt strange about it, but he found himself unwilling to turn the offer down. They didn't talk much, about what had happened or anything else; Wrench slept a lot, and Numbers did things like make food without the microwave, which wasn't even the first thing in a month that made Wrench miss his mother. 

But Numbers wasn't on leave; as soon as things were settled, the boss sent him and a few of the other guys to a job in Montana. The doctor had been vague about how long it would take for Wrench's injury to heal, but now Wrench was only waiting however long it would take until he could pretend it was healed. He didn't want to fall out of the loop, and he didn't like thinking about his partner having any of those idiots as his backup.

The couch was still set up as a makeshift bed, though hesitantly; Wrench had awkwardly folded the blankets and draped them over the arm, and the pillows were propped up in the other corner. Numbers sat by the blankets and pointed at the pillows. I'm staying again? Okay? he asked.

Wrench sat beside him carefully. His injured arm, now in its sling, was a low wall between them again. Don't need to, he said.

I was worried! Numbers said, signing 'worry' like bats flying at his face. You alone with a bad arm. Can't do your pushups!

Wrench smiled. You can open jars for me. Until S-H-A-B-B-O-S.

Opening bottles is not work, Numbers said, watching the game sidelong in spite of himself. But you have to throw the bottle away.

Wrench wasn't a Dallas fan, but he was leaning toward rooting for them out of poorly aimed homesickness. The Cowboys weren't doing very well, though. He nudged Numbers' foot for his attention and said, opening pill bottles is work. For me, right now. I have to leave them open.

Numbers sipped his beer and studied him for a moment. Not the same pills as before?

No, Wrench said. I'm awake, right?

Numbers laughed. You were awake before. But weird. You said weird things.

I don't remember, Wrench said. Weird how?

Numbers was looking down at where Wrench's bare foot was still sidled against his shoe; Wrench drew it away an inch or two and repeated himself. Weird how?

You don't remember? Numbers asked. 

No, I remember some. You mean about the car?

Numbers laughed. No, but like that. Repeating yourself. You said, I fell down. I broke my arm. I said, no. Asshole shot you. You nodded. Ten minutes later, again, broken arm, fell on my arm. 

Wrench didn't remember that at all. When? he asked.

While the doctor was working. After the drugs. You were trying to watch.

Wrench made a face. He said, I was in S-H-O-C-K.

Numbers raised his eyebrows and nodded: fair enough.

They watched the game for a while, or least turned their faces to it; Wrench was having trouble concentrating on it. He was happy to veto hockey for once, though, so he resisted the soft ache of the medication behind his eyes.

Finally Numbers turned back to him, and he said, you don't remember the man shooting you.

Wrench screwed his mouth up. He tried to think of a simple way to phrase his confused half-memory clearly, but he just shook his head. He signed, I don't know what I remember and what I think I remember.

I want to know, Numbers said, because I think you were mad at me.

Wrench sat up a little straighter. Numbers continued, I thought you went outside because you were mad. I didn't know why. I wasn't worried about it. But-- He paused, frowning, and said, when you fire a gun, all the noises happen at the same time. It's all very fast. Understand?

Wrench nodded.

Numbers said, I heard the gun, it sounded far away. At the same time, I heard the bullet hit the side of the truck. Not strong enough to go through it. Just-- he flicked a finger against his arm and spelled P-I-N-G. He said, after that, I heard leaves. Something falling on leaves, not walking.

Wrench took a deep breath. Numbers said, I knew. Right away. First thought: you went outside because you were mad at me.

No, Wrench said. Not mad. He hesitated, and he said, if I was mad, it was bullshit. Like always.

Yes, I know, Numbers said. Doesn't matter.

Wrench glanced up at the game. Dallas had recovered a little, but not by much. Not by enough. He was still for a long moment. When he looked back to Numbers, who had never looked away, he asked, did you have partners before me? People you went together with for every job?

Numbers nodded. Two.

What happened to them?

Numbers shrugged. First guy… R-E-T-I-R-E-D?

Wrench smiled a little and made the sign for 'vacation' with his fingers crossed into Rs.

Numbered laughed. I like that. ...He was much older. Very good. I liked him. He was lucky to retire! But when you leave, you can't…. He paused and smiled apologetically to literally sign the English phrase "stay in touch."

Wrench nodded and didn't correct him. He asked, the second one?

Complicated, Numbers said.

He didn't elaborate, so Wrench asked, dead?

Numbers nodded.

Wrench studied his face and posture for a moment; he said, you killed him?

Numbers raised his hands but kept them still for a long moment. Finally he just repeated, complicated.

Wrench nodded and looked back to the game. Numbers immediately tapped his thigh and signed, he was bad.

We're all bad, Wrench said.

No, Numbers insisted, _bad._ He was working for the other guys. Pretending to be one of us.

What did you do to him? Wrench asked.

Numbers either shrugged a little or sighed deeply enough that it looked like a shrug. He mimed putting a gun to the back of his head.

That was merciful of you, Wrench said. Numbers frowned, and Wrench spelled, M-E-R-C-Y.

Numbers made a strange face. I didn't have time, he said. I needed to be sure his guys knew that I knew, but I had to be far away. Numbers paused. I didn't like him. But he was okay to me. 

Wrench watched him expressionlessly. Numbers looked away. Finally he said, I didn't want to hurt him.

He didn't know he was going to die, Wrench said.

No, Numbers said. He smiled weakly and said, I was supposed to tell him. The boss wrote a speech. I didn't want that speech in my mouth.

Wench nodded. He turned that over his head while they both pretended to watch the game again. 

After a few minutes, long enough that it would look like a gentle attempt to change the subject, Wrench said, my father taught me H-U-N-T-I-N-G.

Numbers raised his eyebrows. I thought he can't sign?

He can't. Doesn't matter. Showed me how to walk quietly, stopped me if I made sound. Showed me everything about guns. He didn't need to talk.

Okay.

Wrench said, when I was eleven, we were following a pair of-- He fingerspelled 'deer' and then signed it, though the sign was an obvious one, as those things went. He wanted me to shoot the B-U-C-K. He wanted to-- Wrench realized that he was getting into vocabulary that would be entirely new for Numbers and that this story might be a little frustrating to tell, but he pushed on anyway. He wanted to keep the head, he said, hoping that made sense, and Numbers nodded. Wrench said, because it was my first, he wanted to keep it. T-R-O-P-H-Y.

I had a rifle. He had a S-H-O-T-G-U-N, backup. He pointed at the deer, and my gun, and his chest. Aim for the chest. Okay. I waited, waited, waited. It didn't turn around! It was eating, and again and again it stepped forward. Later I told Dad, writing, I thought it was going to get away. But that wasn't true. Really, I got bored. I thought, I'll stop it so it can't leave, and next I'll get closer and shoot the chest. Smart, I thought. So I shot it in the leg. Wench pointed to his right thigh.

Numbers nodded.

I was wrong, Wrench said. It ran away with the bullet in its leg! O-O-P-S, I thought. Next time, maybe! Wrench hesitated for a long moment, and then he impulsively picked up Numbers' beer where it had been sitting nearly untouched and sweating on the carpet. Numbers frowned hard but didn't move to take it away, and Wrench took a long swallow of it. With any luck, the combination with the painkillers would make it into something more fortifying. 

Dad grabbed my arm, made me stand up, Wrench said. We picked up our bags. We followed the direction the deer went. I didn't understand. I thought it was gone. Wrong again. Blood on the ground, easy to follow. It was about a half-mile away when it fell down. It was trying to get up. It never stopped trying. Wrench drank more of the beer, nearly emptying it; when he lowered it, Numbers took it away.

Dad shot it in the head, Wrench said. It died. I didn't want to look anymore. I wanted to go home. He grabbed my arm and he pointed to its leg, where I shot it. It looked bad now. Running made it worse, terrible. Dad made sure I saw, and he slapped me.

They were both still for a moment. Didn't keep the head, then? Numbers asked.

Wrench shook his head. B-U-C-K-S-H-O-T.

Numbers winced.

I thought a leg wound wasn't bad, Wrench said. But deer will run and run.

They don't know different, Numbers said. They're animals. They don't know how to give up.

Wrench nodded. Now, he said, sometimes, I think, am I going to run?

That made Numbers sit back. From me? he asked.

Whatever, Wrench said. Whatever it's going to be. He laughed a little. I didn't run this time. 

You don't have to run from me, Numbers said. 

Can't run from you, Wrench said. He sighed; he really could feel the beer now. You're too smart. You'd find me.

You don't have to run from me! Numbers repeated.

Wrench smiled. You'll say that anyway.

It's true, Numbers said. Right now, it's true.

Wrench nodded. Sorry, he said. I'm talking too much. This is silly.

It's not silly.

It's stupid! You should be with Meg. You haven't seen her in almost a month. Wrench didn't actually know that for a fact, but he knew Numbers hadn't spent a night with her in that time, which amounted to the same thing.

True, Numbers said.

Have you called her?

No.

Wrench blinked. Why not?

She called me, Numbers said. While you and I were away. She called me a lot. Numbers laughed a little. Too bad you're deaf. Someone else has to listen to my machine. She filled the tape.

You didn't call her from the motel?

No. Numbers sighed. I sent her flowers when we came back. Said sorry. Find someone better. He shrugged and signed 'finish.'

Wrench didn't know what to say. He didn't even know breaking up via answering machine was a thing people did. My fault? he asked.

No, Numbers said. My fault.

I'm sorry.

Don't, Numbers said, waving a hand. Meg is a good person. I liked her. But she and I aren't good together.

I see, Wrench said, though he didn't. For all that he had assumed about them -- for all that he assumed about all straight couples -- he hadn't ever known anything about them as a pair. He'd told Numbers not to tell him.

I didn't make her most important. That's what you need to do, and I can't. And she moved too fast, talked too much. Numbers paused, and he tilted his head a little. Do you remember what you said before, about how you don't need to talk to men?

He didn't until Numbers had said it, and then that entire conversation came flooding back. He covered his face with his hand briefly and nodded.

Now you say you don't need to talk with your dad. Don't need to talk. Talk too much. That's not true, right?

Wrench frowned. I don't understand.

All the time, you say nothing. Men, your family, the boss, you say nothing. But to me, sometimes, you can't stop talking. You were using your left hand to sign in the motel. The only reason you're not now is because it hurts now.

Wrench actually couldn't feel it at all at the moment. That was probably bad. Sorry, Numbers said. Nothing to do with Meg. But it made me think. You would talk to everyone if everyone knew sign language.

I don't talk to you because you know sign language, Wrench said.

Numbers frowned. Wrench said, I talk to you because you _learned_ sign language. Different. I knew many people in school who knew sign language. I didn't talk to them. After school, nobody knew sign language, so I didn't talk at all. Then you. Wrench sighed and leaned back into the couch. I don't know why it had to be you.

What was me? Numbers asked, his expression stricken.

Wrench shook his head.

You shouldn't have had beer, Numbers said. Stupid. Do you want water?

No.

Numbers studied him for a long moment, and he said, I'm getting you water.

Wrench shot up and twisted to grasp the arm of the couch on Numbers' side, effectively pinning him there, and Numbers froze. Wrench could always move very fast when he needed to.

Numbers leaned back carefully so he could bring his hands up between them. No water, he said.

Wrench shook his head. He could feel himself glaring furiously, and he didn't know why. Was he angry? Why was he angry? He felt like he wanted to cry. 

Numbers pressed his lips into a thin line and said, tell me what you want.

Wrench laughed. He obviously couldn't answer with one arm in a sling and the other taking his weight at a stupid angle. He wasn't even sure he could sit back up without falling. He shoved forward instead and kissed Numbers hard.

Numbers didn't resist him and Wrench got rough, forcing his mouth open and letting Numbers' beard scrape his skin. This didn't yield up much of a reaction, but when Wrench's arm started to shake under his weight Numbers carefully got his own arm around Wrench's chest to hold him upright. 

Stop, stop, _stop_ , the still-functional part of his mind said, and he did, finally. He couldn't move away and he didn't want to look at Numbers' face, so he leaned his forehead against his and breathed heavily for a long time. He could feel Numbers' heart pounding; he couldn't blame him for that.

Numbers waited until he was breathing more or less normally, and he then pushed up with his head a little and kissed him back. He was far gentler.

Everything was made ridiculous by Wrench's stupid arm; he managed to maneuver a leg over Number's lap so he could stabilize himself, but this made the height difference unworkable. Wrench had to lean down to keep kissing him and lean down further to kiss his neck. He didn't know why he was doing this; between the beer and Vicodin, he wasn't even hard, but when Numbers made some noise in his throat Wrench could feel the buzz of it in his head. Eventually he couldn't lean down far enough anymore, and he slipped down to his knees on the the floor. Numbers said something; Wrench saw his top teeth bite out an F out of his lower lip, and he found his own pulse racing.

 _Numbers_ was hard. Wrench didn't need to unbuckle or unfasten anything to see that, but he did anyway. He met Numbers' stunned gaze, inviting him -- challenging him -- to make this stop. He didn't. Wrench yanked Numbers' clothing down just far enough that he could pull his dick out, and he watched Numbers' expression as he stroked it tightly with his good hand. Numbers didn't speak or sign, but he brought up one hand to cup Wrench's cheek the same way he did with men he was about to kill. Wrench took that as a yes. He bent down and put his mouth on him.

It was strange to think that he had missed this; there wasn't anything specific about it to miss when it was someone different every time, and he was uncomfortable thinking that he could be the sort of person who would just miss having a cock in his mouth. But there other things to long for that led to this or involved this, other things he had missed very keenly for the sake of Numbers' peace of mind. Things he didn't want to consider too closely. Numbers' hand moved from his face to his hair; Wrench looked up at him to find him looking back, and Wrench couldn't guess what he saw. Something animal. Something that didn't know how to give up.

Wrench's lower teeth bumped the underside of Numbers' cock, and Numbers' hips jerked up abruptly to thrust upward; Wrench seized his hip and shoved him back down, scowling up at him aggressively. Numbers' grip on his hair tightened painfully, reflexively, and he came.

When they were finished, Wrench sat back on his heels, wincing as the bones his shoulder shifted. He considered Numbers: he had an arm draped defensively over the band of bared skin, and he still looked like he wasn't sure what was happening, or what had just happened. Wrench stood up awkwardly and nodded. You can stay, he said, and he left him to the disheveled couch.

He went to the bathroom and washed his face. Then he went to bed.

He expected to pass out immediately, but he didn't. He was going to regret this tomorrow. He was going to regret this for the rest of his life, probably. He thought about that, but it didn't quite sink in to an emotional level. He thought about Numbers' partner, and he thought about the deer, and he thought about how they really were terrible people, both of them.

He didn't know how long he lay there half awake, but after a time a sliver of the hall light cut the wall he was facing, and then went dark again. Normally he'd already be on his feet with the gun under his mattress in hand, but in the highly unlikely event someone had broken in and killed Numbers on their way to come kill him, then they might as well. 

Moments later, the bed shifted beneath a weight behind Wrench's turned back. He didn't move from his spot, and Numbers didn't touch him. But Wrench sighed deeply and closed his eyes, and his uneasy thoughts finally came to rest.


End file.
